Frieda's Tale

Chapter 4

“We need to know what it is,” Hoban said, when she returned to the site and told them about Granny’s warning. “And quickly, in case there are more of them.”

Frieda scowled. She understood his logic. The artefact, whatever it was, hadn’t come out of nowhere. Someone — or something—had made it. There were enough horror stories about things left behind after the Faerie Wars for her to be very aware of the dangers, of the need to know what was there even if the artefacts were buried and the site sealed off for the rest of eternity. Hell, she’d seen the Dark City and the wastelands near Mountaintop. And yet, the more she thought about it, the more she was sure they were making a terrible mistake.

Hoban leaned forward and kissed her, lightly. “We can handle it,” he said. “We know what we’re doing.”

“Perhaps we should call Emily,” Frieda said. “Or someone…”

Her boyfriend shook his head. “Lady Emily is not a trained archaeologist,” he said, curtly. It took Frieda a moment to realise she’d inadvertently insulted him. “And besides, isn’t she fighting a war?”

Frieda kicked herself, mentally. She’d seen Emily at her best. Hoban had only seen her at her worst, when she’d come very close to being broken by King Randor’s final curse. She had not taken it well. Frieda sighed as Hoban turned away, to return to the dig, She couldn’t blame Emily for reacting badly to the curse and yet… she ground her teeth in bitter frustration. They needed help.

The thought mocked her as the hours slowly turned into days. The digging team grumbled and grumbled and did as little as they could get away with, despite a mixture of promise and threats, but they slowly dug out more of the artefact. Frieda thought, as she studied the object, that her early thoughts about icebergs had been more accurate than she’d realised at the time. The artefact did look like the tip of an iceberg, although it was still hard to get a good look at it. Her eyes kept skipping over the artefact, leaving her with the impression it was both smooth and oily and yet angular and hard. She wondered, as she paced the edge of the dig and supervised the workers, if her own preconceptions were colouring her impressions. Frieda was no expert on subtle magic, and the team knew to watch for it; but she knew the basics. The runes tended to work better when they were encouraging someone to believe what they wanted to believe. It was easy to think one might be right, harder to admit one might be wrong.

Her sense of unease grew stronger as incidents started to mount up. One worker went mad, running around screaming his head off until she stunned him… and then, when he recovered, had no memory of the incident at all. Another fell asleep when he was supposed to be working, nearly falling into the pit as he hit the ground. Frieda thought someone had hit him with a sleep spell, perhaps someone lurking in the undergrowth, but there was no trace of any magic on his person. Two more simply downed tools and walked away from the artefact, as if they thought it was the end of the working day. They didn’t stop, or respond to orders or shouts, until they crossed the boundary line on the edge of the ruined village.

She watched, more concerned than she cared to admit. She’d been told, as a child, that the ruined village was haunted, that no man entered the blackened wasteland and returned with his life. It belonged to the Awful Folk now and… she didn’t believe it. No, she didn’t want to believe it. And yet, there were things flickering at the corner of her eye, shapes moving within the forest as night crept over the land, whispers echoing at the edge of her awareness… she knew she was brave. She knew she could handle anything, and if she couldn’t, she knew she could make it feel it had been in a fight; yet she wanted to turn and run. She hadn’t felt so scared since the first time the lads had cornered her, when she’d started to grow into a young woman…

Her eyes narrowed. No, it wasn’t like that. It was… something else, a deep gnawing fear that didn’t seem to have a cause. There were no visible threats, save for the artefact and it didn’t seem to be doing anything, yet she was scared. Very scared. The sense of being watched waxed with nightfall and waned with sunrise, yet never faded completely. She could feel unseen eyes on her, but… she could never see them.

“We could sneak off, into the bushes,” Hoban suggested, one afternoon. “That’s what they do here, isn’t it?”

Frieda shook her head. She’d never let herself be caught, not like some of the other girls… they claimed, at least, that they’d been careful to run without running very fast. The thought of making love in the forest repelled her, for reasons she couldn’t put into words. It wasn’t just that it represented one of her nightmares, of being forced to go further than she wished… it was the omnipresent sense they were being watched. She was too lost in her own fears to feel guilt at the way his expression fell, just for a second. He was too good a man to push the issue… in a way, she almost wished he had. A fight would have broken the shadows falling over her thoughts, whatever the cause. She was almost tempted to pick one.

I picked a fight with Cat, she recalled suddenly. And that didn’t end well.

She frowned, inwardly. She’d never liked Cat. He was too flashy, too heavily masculine, too… too full of himself for her peace of mind. She’d feared disaster, the moment she’d heard Cat and Emily had started to date. And she’d been right… she shook her head, sternly. She wished both of them were here, beside her. If there was a threat, Cat would be quite happy to charge into the teeth of certain death while Emily and Frieda came up with a plan. He’d consider it sheer tactical brilliance. Of course, he would.

Esther came up to them, her face grim. “Have either of you seen Sir Wheaton?”

“He isn’t a real knight,” Frieda said automatically, although she’d never been clear on what a real knight was. The tales of chivalry and brave men battling evil sorcerers and rampaging dragons to save innocent women and children had long since given way to an ugly reality, where the best of the knights were little more than bully-boys enforcing their master’s will. “He’s probably trying to lure some maiden into the forest with him.”

She knew, even as she spoke, it probably wasn’t true. Sir Wheaton didn’t need to lure anyone anywhere. He could have any woman in the village for the asking and to hell with however she felt about it. Her husband couldn’t say no… although he’d probably take it out on the poor bitch afterwards, instead of the untouchable knight. Frieda had seen the way the so-called knight had looked at her, even though he knew she was a sorceress. She had no doubt he wouldn’t hesitate to take a village girl, if he wanted one.

“He should have been up here at noon,” Esther said, flatly. She hadn’t grown up anywhere near the Cairngorms. She didn’t understand the realities of life in the mountains. “He’s not normally late.”

“Odd,” Hoban agreed. “His master wants to keep an eye on us.”

Frieda nodded. Lord Harold — the nobleman’s titles grew more grandiose with every passing day, from what she could see — wanted to be sure he got his fair share of the loot, if the dig uncovered an old tomb crammed with gold and jewels. It had happened, to be fair, although most of the buried treasure had come with very nasty curses attached. Frieda suspected Sir Wheaton had failed, unsurprisingly, to convey the sheer alienness of the artefact to his master. She’d bet her entire fortune that, if there was a tomb underneath, it wasn’t intended for a human.

She brushed her hair out of her eyes. “I’ll go looking for him,” she said, shortly. It was something to do, something that would alleviate the boredom for a few short hours. “If he turns up, tell him not to waste so much time messing around in the village.”

Hoban gave her an odd look. “The village?”

Frieda shrugged. “Where else would he go?”

She turned and walked to the knight’s tent, brushing the pair of tiny locking charms apart with practised ease. The tent might have been splendid once, but it had passed through so many owners — some of whom had patched the fabric up repeatedly — that it looked strikingly tawdry. She was mildly surprised the knight had been sleeping at the campsite. He could have stayed in his master’s castle, and commute every morning. Her lips twitched as she peered inside, rolling her eyes at the mess. Perhaps his master couldn’t stand the sight of him. Frieda could hardly blame the overlord for that.

Disgusting, she thought. Sergeant Miles would have flogged his students for leaving their tents in such a state. Everything had to be in its place, he’d insisted, or you wouldn’t know where it was when you needed it. There has to be something of his here.

She gritted her teeth, picked up a small dagger and cast a tracking spell. The dagger pulled her around, pointing towards the village. Of course… Frieda cursed under her breath as she allowed it to lead her out of the tent, pushing the flap closed behind her. The knight was in the village… who knew? A thought crossed her mind, and she smiled. She was a sorceress, a de facto noblewoman. She could give him hell, and he’d just have to take it…

The dagger led her onwards, down the road. Frieda held the hilt lightly, keeping her eyes open. The sense of unseen eyes was growing stronger, again… she thought she saw something within the tree-line, gone almost as soon as she noticed it. Her eyes narrowed. It might not be dangerous — she knew children snuck through the forests hunting for mushrooms, careful to remain unseen — and yet, she felt uneasy. The knife twisted in her hand, nearly breaking out of her grip. Frieda blinked in surprise. Sir Wheaton couldn’t have changed his position so quickly, yet the knife was charmed to point directly at its owner.

Her mind raced. Sir Wheaton could have teleported… except he couldn’t, because he wasn’t a sorcerer. Or was he? Frieda herself was living proof magic ran strong in the Cairngorms, and she was hardly the strongest magician to come out of the region. She’d once heard a rumour that Void himself had been born in the mountains… she shook her head as the knife twisted again. Sir Wheaton was no sorcerer. If he had magic to match hers, he would either have left long ago or simply taken over for himself. He wouldn’t be running errands for a nobleman with grand titles and pitiful holdings.

She kept her eyes open as she allowed the knife to lead her onwards, into the forest. The trees closed in around her, casting long shadows over her path. She frowned as she flitted from tree to tree, wishing she’d taken the time to brush up the skills she’d learnt as a child. She’d once practically flowed through the trees, so silently she hadn’t disturbed the wildlife. Now, she was uneasily aware of her own footsteps. Her mere presence was causing the birds and beasts to flee.

The knife twisted again. This time, it pointed back towards the campsite. Frieda stopped dead, shaking her head. She wished she could fly, although… the canopy overhead was so thick she doubted she could see anything if she flew over the treetops. It wouldn’t even be easy to spot the village itself, not from the air. Too many villages believed witches flew overhead at midnight, hunting for victims to drag back to their lairs before the sun rose… she put the thought aside as she cancelled the tracking spell and carefully put it back together. This time, the knife twisted so rapidly she had to let go of the hilt and jump backwards. It fell and hit the ground, spinning in the soil before the last of the magic wore off. Frieda swore under her breath. Sir Wheaton was alive — she thought — but he was clearly hidden from her spells. Or…

She hesitated, briefly considering leaving the knife on the ground, then picked it up and headed back to the camp. It wasn’t easy going. The trees seemed to be closing in around her, as if they were moving when she wasn’t looking. She thought she was being silly, and yet the sensation of something right behind her, breathing down her neck, refused to go away. It was all she could do to walk calmly, despite an urge to either flee or hurl a fireball into the empty air behind her. If it hit something… she breathed a sigh of relief when she found the road, then started to make her way back to the camp. Hoban had to be informed. He could decide what to do.

Granny said we should bury the artefact and forget we ever saw it, she recalled, numbly. She hadn’t seen anything of the hedge witch, since she’d delivered her warning, And Hoban refused to listen.

The thought haunted her as she reached the boundary line and crossed into the village. Hoban was standing there, talking to Ivanovo. Frieda nearly flinched. It was hard not to fear what Ivanovo might be saying to Hoban, even though it was unlikely Ivanovo would be able to poison his mind. And yet… she gritted her teeth, reminding herself that the macho code of the mountains didn’t apply to magicians. If Ivanovo told Hoban everything, or even hinted at everything, it would probably be the last thing he ever did.

Ivanovo really did flinch when he saw her. Frieda was almost pleased.

“The tracking spell kept twisting,” Frieda said, talking an unholy delight in talking over the headman’s son. It was rare for any woman to have a chance to speak in the village, certainly not before the men. The sheer disrespect she’d shown would grate on him, all the more because he couldn’t strike back at her. “It felt as if he was teleporting.”

“Or someone was concealing his location,” Hoban finished. “There’s a lot of wild magic in the air. It could have disrupted the spell.”

“Or the Awful Folk got him,” Ivanovo said. “He was their lawful pray…”

“It wasn’t as if the magic was disrupting the spell,” Frieda said, interrupting Ivanovo. She knew she was being petty, but — for once — it felt awfully good. “It was more as if he was being whisked around, impossibly fast.”

“Curious,” Hoban said. “We’ll send a messenger to his master if he doesn’t show up by nightfall.”

Frieda bit her tongue to keep from telling Hoban they had to act now. He might not notice, or care, if she undercut him in public, but Ivanovo would. And then… she wanted to think it wouldn’t matter, when both Frieda and Hoban were powerful sorcerers, but she knew better. Ivanovo would think Hoban was weak — his woman was daring to contradict him in front of watching eyes, the horror—and it would rebound on them somehow. She promised herself she’d discuss it later, when they were in the tents. She could chat with him, as well as make love, before she went to her own tent.

The villagers might have done something to him, she thought coldly, but how could they have hidden him from my charm?

Her thoughts raced as she left the two men and headed to the tents. The charm had been cast perfectly. She’d checked. If Sir Wheaton had been killed, the charm wouldn’t have worked at all. If he’d been wounded and left to die, or simply held prisoner somewhere, the charm should have led her straight to him. Unless a sorcerer had hidden him, in which case the charm shouldn’t have locked on to anything… she frowned, wishing she knew more about how the spells actually worked. Was she facing a curiously improved obscurification charm, tied into a concealment ward? She thought it was possible…

No, she thought. That wouldn’t give us a variable location. The charm would just refuse to locate him.

She puzzled over it for the rest of the day, wishing — again — Emily or Alassa or even Jade or Aloha were with her. She’d even take Cat. And yet… she spoke briefly to Hoban, who was dismissive. She didn’t really blame him — Sir Wheaton might interfere at a crucial moment, making it impossible for the diggers to complete their mission — but it still worried her. She wouldn’t have reported the villagers for killing the bastard. She just wanted to know what had happened to him for her peace of mind.

“You could stay, you know,” Hoban said, afterwards. “I’ll be on the far side of the tent.”

Frieda shook her head, feeling a twinge of affection. He was trying to be kind… she smiled, despite herself, as she slipped out of the tent. It was too small for his offer, as well meant as it was, to mean much. And yet…

She paused as she sensed the darkness pooling over the land. The artefact was a pit of darkness… no, it was impossibly tall and yet tiny beyond words. She could see it, even though it was hidden in the shadows. She had the sense of mighty workings spinning around her, gone almost as soon as she sensed them. People moving in the shadows.

That night, she dreamed. And woke up screaming.